Close your eyes, what do you see?
by thirteen13hours
Summary: Working for the music faculty at her alma mater, Christine is constantly reminded of a life that might have been. At a fundraising event, she meets Erik, who is disappointed to see that the soprano he'd once admired has traded the stage for a desk and a pension.
1. Chapter 1

_Hi there! Thanks for giving this story a chance. After lurking for years, I'm finally posting a fic of my own._

 _This story is a work in progress - I've written the first five chapters and will do my best to post regularly. The first chapter is heavy on exposition, bear with me! It gets angsty and plotty real soon._

 _If you like what you read, consider leaving a review._

* * *

 **Chapter One**

I should begin by explaining what it is that I do for a living. That's how I met _him_.

He was an artist and an entrepreneur, looking for his next great project. When he found me, I was surrounded by art and by music, but had forgotten how to create it. At first, I feared him. But then, after I understood him better, he became my tutor, my friend, and my lover.

At the time we met, I was working as a fundraiser. Or, as my business card read, a _development manager_. Development: it's a euphemism that wealthy people are comfortable with and that doesn't frighten away prospective donors. But, in the barest sense of the truth, I raised money for a living.

For nearly two years, I fundraised for the fine arts faculty of my alma mater. University administrators set annual targets and I wrangled, cajoled, and flattered my way into meeting them. At best, not meeting a target would lead to "coaching" from an unhelpful HR rep. At worst, I'd jeopardize my ability to pay my rent.

Thanks to some creative event planning and a handful of generous arts benefactors, I'd surpassed my last year's target, raising enough to pay for renovations to a theatre buildings and to support scholarships for incoming students. My director had been pleased. I'd been relieved.

Of course, I hadn't set out to become a fundraiser. Almost no one does. It's not a career path commonly advertised to grade-school children.

Five years ago, I graduated with a bachelor's degree in finance and a minor in music theory. While finance had been a fail-safe, music was my true passion and I'd filled my elective slate with courses in theory and vocal performance. My professors had challenged me, helping me to broaden my range and increase my repertoire. Professor Firmin, the department head, persuaded me to apply for the master's program. And, like many finishing undergraduates, I'd been eager to postpone entry into "the real world".

My master's degree took almost two years to complete. I joined the university's opera corps and musical society. Between a demanding stage schedule and part-time work in the registrar's office, my coursework and thesis had been an after-thought.

After convocation, I worked for the national opera company in a dual role: part chorus member and part patron liaison. Through my second role, I'd met Karen, development director in the university's College of Fine Arts, and she'd invited me to apply for a fundraising position at the university I'd twice graduated from.

In the beginning, I'd excelled in my new role. My work with the opera company netted a contact base of philanthropists and well-connected artists. Even during the height of the recession, I'd exceeded targets.

This year, though, reliable donors had cancelled meetings and new prospects were harder to find. Philanthropists, it seemed, were holding back their giving or turning to shinier interests. There were four months left in the fiscal year and I had yet to raise half of my goal. Colleagues kept telling me that this was normal, that giving increased over the holiday season, that I would reach my target. Still, I harbored the suspicion that perhaps I'd made a mistake in leaving the opera company.

Falling short might have been easier if I'd cared less. Still a fresh graduate, I carried a deep attachment to the students and professors in the fine arts faculty. I couldn't –wouldn't – let my department down.

And, more practically, I worried for the health of my new career. If I didn't meet the development office's goals, I risked losing my job with the university and being shunned from similar positions elsewhere. With no parents alive to support me, I'd incurred tens of thousands of dollars' worth of student loans. Now, into the latter half of my twenties, I had new responsibilities: a down payment to save for and a wedding to plan.

Failure, as the movies say, wasn't an option.

I needed to meet new people and attract new money to the university. In the snatches of time I had between meetings and paper shuffling, I worked with my director to plan a gala evening that would showcase the most promising talent in the fine arts faculty and - I hoped - attract new donors.

Karen and I had planned a roving artistic feast. Guests would be escorted between the stone and brick buildings on the university campus, sampling courses from a catered menu and enjoying an evening of theatre, visual art, music, and dance. Invitations had been sent to philanthropists, business leaders, tech entrepreneurs, and family foundations. Over 200 of the city's finest had RSVP'd.

The gala was scheduled for December 14th – tonight. At my desk that morning, I confirmed final changes to the guest list with the receptionist, checked that the changes had been sent to the caterer, and responded to the last emails in my inbox. My morning was nearly uninterrupted – I'd blocked the day off in my calendar and close coworkers knew that I'd be unavailable. My only distraction that morning had been the arrival of Antoinette Giry, head of the university's dance program.

From her biography on the dance program's website, I knew that Antoinette was in her early fifties. If I hadn't known that she'd studied dance in Europe for two decades before coming to North America and teaching at the university for another eight years, I would have guessed her to be ten years younger. She was tall, at least five-foot-ten, lean, and showed perfect posture. Walking into my office, her steps were light and her stance elegant.

"Christine! I'd hoped you would be in this morning," she began.

"I'm just about to walk over to the museum to check that everything's ready for tonight – what can I do for you?" I hoped that she wouldn't demand one of her 'big favours'. In the last two years, Antoinette had asked for assistance starting scholarships and introducing several of her students to creative directors at the city's theatres and dance troupes. As a professional, I respected Antoinette. She was an excellent teacher and the students who could brave her strict methods went on to join opera companies and ballet ensembles.

"A personal favour," she began. "My daughter, Meg, arrived home last night. I'd like to bring her with me to the gala, as my guest. I can pay for her ticket, of course."

"She's not a current student, is she?" I asked, looking up Antoinette Giry in the university's personnel files.

"No, she's a graduate. She's finishing her MFA in New York."

"New York? That must be exciting for her," I said, making idle chatter while I added Meg's name to the guest list and forwarded the update to the caterer.

"I'm sure it is," Antoinette said stiffly.

I'd heard through a colleague that Antoinette's daughter was a dancer as well and had completed her undergraduate degree at the university but had chosen to pursue graduate studies elsewhere, away from her mother.

"Well, she's on the list, and I've added her to your table for dinner. You can pay for her ticket after the event."

Antoinette said a terse thank you and left my office, leaving a faint trace of rose perfume in her wake. I'd never met her daughter – she must have started at the university while I was in my senior year – and I was curious to meet the younger Giry who must have lived in her mother's shadow for years. No wonder she'd left for New York!

After Antoinette's footsteps had faded from earshot, I closed the lid on my laptop and tossed my keys and phone into my purse. Pulling my coat off the rack behind me, I left my desk and said goodbye to the receptionist on my way out.

The starting point for tonight's gala was a museum on the south end of the campus. The venue was a short walk from my office and I made the trip in under ten minutes. I noted a steady stream of tourists streaming in and out of the glass doors, pulling shopping bags, strollers and backpacks with them.

Within the hour, the museum would close to the public and a small army would transform the public gallery space into an intimate dining area. Guests would arrive in the museum's lobby for cocktails before taking the elevator to the top floor for dinner. The university's contemporary dance troupe would perform during the cocktail hour and the jazz musicians would perform through dinner. After the meal, faculty members would lead guests on guided tours through the university's arts buildings where they were would meet with dancers, artists, musicians and performers from each of the university's fine arts programs.

The gala was part fundraiser, part showcase, and part networking event. If it was successful, I could repeat the event each year. As it was, I'd hoped to sell 300 tickets and had only sold 222 – 223 including Meg Giry. Even if the event was a complete flop, I had still raised several thousand dollars through ticket sales and would, hopefully, bolster the reputation of the fine arts faculty.

Once inside the museum, I waved my event pass at the security guard and stepped into the elevator and onto the fifth floor. The caterer had already set up round tables and high-backed dining chairs. A staff person was rolling around a cart full of linens and draping cloths over each table. I scanned the room, noting the expressions on each of the catering employees' faces. Each worker looked focused, but none looked visibly stressed. A good sign.

After checking the final seating chart and menu with the caterer, I left, satisfied that the dinner preparations were in good hands, and took a cab to my apartment to get dressed and ready.

My fiancé, Raoul, was home for the afternoon. He sat at the kitchen table, a stack of term papers next to his elbow and a mug of tea steaming in front of him. Peppermint, I deduced from the smell. He brought tea home in restaurant-sized cases and drank several cups a day. It was exam season and, always the professor, Raoul was at home, in jeans and rolled-up sleeves, grading essays. I loved him for it.

Once I'd taken off my coat, scarf, and boots, Raoul met me in the living room and wrapped his arms around me in a warm, comforting hug.

"How are you feeling?" he asked, scanning my face for signs of distress or worry.

"I'm fine," I replied. "I'm just stopping in to get ready before I head over to the museum. Did you bring my dress back from the cleaners?"

"It's hanging in the closet, out of Ella's reach," he said, inclining his glance to the brown tabby lounging across the back of the couch.

"Thank you," I said. In the four years we'd been a couple, Raoul had been the only constant in a life where jobs changed, apartments moved, and parents died. When we'd met, I was a master's student and he was a sessional lecturer in the university's classical studies department. Years later, our careers had begun and we'd settled into a comfortable routine living together and supporting each other's work.

"You're sure it's okay for me to stay home tonight? I can still dust off a suit and come out with you," Raoul suggested.

"No, the guest list is ready to go and I'll be able to meet more prospects if I go alone," I answered. "You might scare off all the old rich people."

"I have it on good authority that 'old rich people' adore classical studies professors."

"Really, is that your plan? Seduce a wealthy heiress and leave your poor working-class girlfriend out on the curb," I teased, closing the remaining space between us.

"I wouldn't dream of leaving my fiancée for anyone. No matter how wealthy or how close to her expiration date she is."

 _Fiancée_. It was the 'f word'. I loved Raoul, but hated it when he introduced me as his fiancée. Inevitably, the word led to inquiries about dates, flowers, invitations, and family plans. Questions that should have made me squeal with delight but, instead, made me cringe with discomfort. Oh Raoul. Shelving my thoughts, I left his embrace to get ready in the bedroom.

Within half an hour, I was standing before the bedroom mirror wearing an ankle-length navy blue satin gown and silver strappy heels that added inches to my petite frame. My hair, a mess of dark waves on most days, was pulled into a low chignon and held in place with an jeweled hair clip.

Twenty minutes later, I was back at the museum, helping to usher visitors out as the museum closed for the day. A family visiting from Vancouver complained they'd bought day passes in advance but were quickly placated with a refund.

Once the museum was clear of tourists, I began to direct the staff in setting up the entrance and registration table.

I was in the midst of spreading dance cards out on the registration table when my director, Karen, walked in carrying a tote bin full of table numbers and favors for the guests.

"You've arrived early," she said, noting my state of dress with approval. "I was hoping I'd be able to help you set up."

"No, we're almost ready," I answered. "You can pass me the box of gift bags and take the table cards to the caterer upstairs and then we should be set."

"Perfect. The guests will start arriving in the next hour or so."

I watched for the next several minutes while Karen fussed over last-minute details and needlessly repositioned items on the registration table. Once she was satisfied, she retreated to the washroom to check her makeup. I lingered at the front table, checking email on my smartphone while waiting for the rest of the event team to arrive.

Two emails from guests sending their regrets – I could give their seats away if other guests brought plus one's. One email from an event sponsor confirming signage. One message from my assistant confirming the attendance of E. St. Clair – the name felt familiar, but I failed to place it to a person. If Mr. St. Clair had RSVP'd earlier, the university's fundraising research team could have prepared a brief biographical sketch. One last message, from Raoul, telling me that I looked beautiful and wishing me luck tonight. Sweet man. I'd left some of his favorite beers in the fridge earlier in the week and hoped that he was taking a break from grading papers.

Event volunteers Sara, Mark, and Janice arrived with the first guests, leaving me free to step away from the registration table and mingle with the new arrivals. Over the next hour, I drifted between klatches of attendees, introducing myself and describing the newest and most innovative programs in the fine arts faculty. I'd recognized several of the guests from my time working at the opera house. Others I recognized from city magazines and business newspapers.

When it was time for dinner, I stood on a platform and introduced the university president, who formally welcomed everyone to tonight's event and gave the cue for the jazz band to begin the musical accompaniment. I'd intentionally seated myself at a half-empty table in the back of the room so that I'd be able to run between the kitchen, the elevator, and the reception. Most of the light in the upper floor of the museum came from floor-to-ceiling windows along the side of the building. The winter sun had set early, leaving the room dimly lit.

I was engaged in conversation with the woman sitting to my left – a curator with the national art gallery, small chance of a gift but strong network – when a tall man in black took the empty seat to my right.

"Have you checked in with the registration desk?" I asked absently, keeping my attention on the curator as she finished telling me about an upcoming exhibition.

"I saw no need," he said, his voice like a rub of velvet against my ears. "I believe that your office confirmed my attendance this afternoon. Erik St. Clair."

He held out his hand for an introductory shake and I froze as I met his eyes. Erik St. Clair was dressed impeccably in a tailored black tuxedo, a white linen shirt that looked as if it had been purchased this morning and glossy black cufflinks that shone in the candlelight. A bone-white mask covered the left half of his face from forehead to upper lip. Beneath the mask, a pair of topaz eyes met mine in an unblinking stare. Everything about the man - from his clothing to his bearing to the curve of his lip - exuded power and intensity.

Resisting the urge to gulp, I remembered my manners and proffered my hand, keeping my eyes on his through the hand shake. He didn't blink or look away.

"It's a pleasure to meet you, Erik."

"And you are Christine Daaé, correct? The university president nodded in your direction when I asked who had organized this little fête."

"Yes, I'm Christine Daaé, faculty of fine arts," I added out of habit.

"I remember your name from the city opera house. You performed in the chorus of _Faust_ and _La Bohème_. And worked with the opera's managers?"

"I did, yes. Have we met before?" I asked, confused. I guessed that he'd looked up my biography on the university's website, or else knew me through a common acquaintance. If I'd met a man in a mask during my time at the opera house, I would have remembered him. Even amongst theatre people, masks weren't common accessories.

"We never made an introduction, though I attended many performances and recitals."

I didn't know how to reply to his cryptic statement, so opted to change the subject, "What brings you to the gala? Are you a supporter of the university?"

"Simple curiosity," he replied, his eyes burning into mine. Erik's intense gaze made me feel raw and exposed and, out of instinct, I gripped the edge of my shawl and pulled the thin material higher around my bare arms. His eyes followed my movement and his glance settled on my engagement ring for a moment before returning to my face.

"I have to check on.. the catering," I mumbled lamely. "I hope you enjoy your evening."

Escape! Once I was safely beyond the door to the kitchen, I glanced back at Erik. He sat at the table for several minutes and didn't attempt conversation with any of the other guests. Although wait staff brought each course to him, he never once lifted a utensil to eat.

If he was simply curious, I was absolutely burning with questions.

Pulling out my phone, I opened the email that confirmed Erik St. Clair's attendance tonight. I forwarded the message along to a colleague on the prospect research team and requested more information. Development researchers kept records on all alumni and friends of the university, as well as biographies of persons of interest. All the information – addresses, wealth indicators, relationships, event attendance – was obtained through the prospect or else using public means. If Erik was able to afford a $500 dinner to satisfy "simple curiosity," there was a good chance that he was a person of interest and that the research team would have something on file.

Through the rest of the meal, I moved between tables, introducing myself and checking in on the university's supporters. All agreed that the food was superb and the musicians were very talented. Some introduced me to their friends and table mates – business leaders, philanthropists, and well-connected socializers – and I began a mental list of people to request follow-up meetings with. While the guest pool was smaller than I'd originally hoped for, the calibre of attendees was high and I had strong hopes for raising large gifts.

During dessert, my phone pinged with an incoming email. I excused myself to visit the washroom, where I would be able to discreetly read and answer any messages.

CONFIDENTIAL – PRIVILEGED INFORMATION

Christine,

You were right – we had a bio on file for Erik St. Clair. There isn't much history available. He's very private. This is the first university event he's attended.

Hope you're enjoying your evening,

Amanda.

Erik St. Clair

Graduated BSc in 1995, MSc in 1996, MBA in 1999.

Born in 1978, approx. 40 years old. Addresses in Toronto, New York, Vancouver, and London (UK).

Owner and CEO of ESC Holdings. Business interests in real estate, finance, medical research, architecture, and fine arts. Close associate of Nadir Khan, CFO of ESC Holdings.

Few public appearances – affinity is difficult to determine. No previous events or prior donations. Capacity for a multi-million dollar gift.

I read the biography with interest, but was frustrated at not seeing any personal details. No mention of family, marriage, or outside interests. No notes on activities he'd participated in as a student. Very little I could begin a conversation with. And nothing about his mask, or why he wore it. But if he had business interests in fine art and the capacity to make a major gift, I needed to keep him happy and engaged.

I left the washroom, tucking my phone into my clutch as I re-entered the dining area. The musicians were performing a Dave Brubeck standard from _Time Out_ and the familiar tune made me smile.

"Working late?" Erik asked, startling me so that I nearly dropped my phone. Erik was lingering at the edge of the room and, from his stiff posturing, I could tell that he was uncomfortable.

"Can I get you anything? A drink from the bar?" I offered, wondering if he knew I'd been snooping on him.

His mouth tightened into a hard line and his eyes searched mine, assessing my motives. His glance fell again to my left hand, making me conscious of the ring I wore there.

"I would like a drink very much, thank you," he said, placing his hand against the small of my back and steering me towards the bar. I bristled at the unexpected contact, but kept my composure, biting my lip in silent discomfort. Personal space was important to me and, with few exceptions, I didn't like to be touched.

At the bar, Erik pored over the spirit selection and chose a 15-year scotch without ice. Without asking, he ordered a glass of port wine for me. The bartender pushed both drinks towards Erik, who offered a generous tip. Drink in hand, Erik led us to a cocktail table at the edge of the room. He set his scotch down and leaned over the table, his eyes watching me. The quiet was maddening.

"Which of the tours are you most interested in?" I asked, forcing a conversation.

"I won't be attending any," he answered, sipping his scotch. "I have other business to attend to tonight."

"Oh," I answered. "Will you be visiting the university again soon?"

"Perhaps," he said, pausing. "I would like to see you again, Christine. _Don Quichotte_ will be opening at the national arts centre next Saturday. You will join me. I have a private box; we won't be disturbed."

It wasn't a question. He hadn't _asked_ me to attend the performance with him; he'd _told_ me I would go. I bristled at his audacity. While fundraisers regularly met with prospective donors at events and in public places, the thought of an intimate meeting in the private box of an opera house crossed my ethical boundaries. I was a fundraiser, not a friend.

"I don't think that's appropriate."

"It's entirely appropriate. You worked at the opera house and I'm a patron – it's neutral, shared territory. You're raising money for the fine arts faculty and I intend to make a contribution. If I get the pleasure of your company in a private setting for three hours, who am I to complain?"

Was this a business meeting or a date? And what would Raoul think?

As if reading my thoughts, Erik continued, "If this about the ring on your finger, you are engaged, not married. Do you have a date in mind for the upcoming nuptials? I doubt your intended would be bothered by a meeting with a university benefactor."

"No, no date," I stammered, silently cursing the ring for its power to inspire uncomfortable questions. "But. A private box in a theatre – that's highly irregular."

Erik sighed, frustrated by my evasion. "I will pick you up at seven o'clock on Saturday. You will be ready."

I parted my lips to protest, but Erik turned around, placed his empty glass on the table and left the dining area. I hung back, still holding the untouched glass of port in my right hand.

Clearly, Erik was used to having his way. A common - and grating - trait in successful entrepreneurs. Still, I was intrigued.

Men like Erik St. Clair had personal Wikipedia pages and appeared in Forbes listings, business blogs, and society magazines. His scant biography had offered the barest of insights.

For all his wealth and power, Erik St. Clair was a ghost.


	2. Chapter 2

_Another chapter - a day ahead of my Saturday posting schedule! Thank you to PhantomFan01 and Sittol77 for your kind reviews._

 _Good 'ol Raoul makes his debut in this week's chapter. Let me know what you think of him. :)_

* * *

 **Chapter Two**

On Monday morning, three pieces of correspondence reached me before I had a chance to settle into my work.

The first:

There was a bouquet of red roses waiting at the reception desk for me on my way in. The card that came with the flowers was unsigned and carried a simple message, "Saturday at 7 pm," in masculine block letters. Red roses and a curt demand? I had no doubt that the flowers were from Erik. To quash office gossip, I 'announced' they were a surprise from Raoul and placed them - sans card - in a vase on my desk. The office shredder made quick work of the accompanying note.

The second:

A voicemail from Richard Firmin, the university's vice-president revealed that an anonymous donor had made a $5-million gift for the music department. The gift had come through electronic transfer of securities from a numbered bank account. A banker had included instructions to use the funds to renovate the Walden Performance Centre and to purchase a new pipe organ for the space.

The third:

A department-wide email from the Dean of Fine Arts carried news that the grand piano in the Walden Performance Centre had been vandalized. Someone had entered after hours and broken all of the strings in the piano, smashed its keys, and sawed open the case. The Dean's email sounded irate, but I knew that the music faculty would count the damage as a blessing. The aging piano had been a gift from a retired professor and the university had been obliged to accept it, despite its poor condition. Wryly, I guessed that the vandalism was connected to the anonymous donation.

It was 9:24 am and my head was already spinning. Groaning, I folded my arms over my desk and set my head down to try to relax and bring my thoughts into focus. The masked face of Erik St. Clair appeared in my mind and found myself wondering how many of the morning's events were connected to the reclusive, demanding entrepreneur. And, more importantly, why did he care so deeply about the Walden Performance Centre?

I recalled the voicemail from the vice-president of development; he'd had no idea who the donor was and had been frustrated by his or her methods. Most anonymous donors made their gifts personally, but kept their names confidential. This allowed the university to thank the donor and, after a period of time, prepare to ask for their support again. A numbered account was difficult to trace and, if announced poorly, could raise suspicion.

Taking a deep breath, I picked up my phone to return the vice-president's call.

Richard answered on the second ring.

"Christine, good to hear from you! Congratulations on a successful Arts Gala."

"Thank you. I hear you had a busy evening." _That_ was an understatement. I'd sat the vice-president at the head of the room. Between posing for photos with city councillors, schmoozing with top donors, and negotiating budgets with department heads, he'd been well occupied.

"You know how these events are," he chuckled. "Listen, did you have a chance to listen to my voicemail? The College of Fine Arts received a very large, very _anonymous_ gift over the weekend. Did this come through one of your prospects?"

"I… I'm not sure," I stammered. Anonymous gifts usually counted towards fundraising targets. Though, in virtually all cases, the university knew the donor but respected his or her wishes for privacy. And then there was my hunch, unproven, that Erik St. Clair was involved. "I'll have to check in with one of the donors I've been working with."

"Does that donor have a _name_ , Christine?"

"They do. He does. I just want to be sure before sending that information off to records."

Richard sighed. An anonymous gift could rile students (and staff!) who enjoyed conspiracy theories.

"I'll give you two weeks to match the gift with a name. If we get a name, great, we'll record it for the development team. No name, no problem. Either way, we'll work with PR to come up with an anonymous gift announcement."

So he _was_ preparing to accept the donation. _They always take the money._ A year ago, when I'd began my job, another department had accepted a donation from a large tobacco company. The student union had been outraged. The administration had been cowed into returning the money and making a statement on fundraising ethics and academic integrity.

"Okay, I agreed. "I'll be in touch again before the end of the month."

"Thank you, Christine. Frustrating as it is to be in the dark, I appreciate your delicate handling on this one. Good luck with your mystery donor."

I said a thank you and, after a set of polite goodbyes, we each hung up. Exhausted all over again, I leaned back in my chair and huffed in the direction of the ceiling. The pockmarked panels lay flat and silent, unaffected by my sounds of frustration.

Not telling Richard about Erik meant that _I_ would be the one to find out whether or not he was the donor.

It would have been easy to reveal my guess and let Richard ask the questions. Five-million dollar gifts were out of my usual range. People with that kind of money expected meetings with deans or senior administrators, not lowly development managers.

There was also the chance that I'd guessed wrong. That I'd connected Erik's demanding personality and private nature to someone else's gift. And, if that were the case, I didn't think he'd be pleased to be taking calls and emails from university fundraisers.

I had to be more subtle. And being subtle meant accepting his invitation - demand? - to attend the opening of _Don Quichotte_.

And I hadn't told Raoul about any of this.

After coming home from the gala, I'd found Raoul in bed, asleep, with the reading light on and a dog-eared detective novel under his left hand. He'd been waiting for me. Raoul was an early riser and usually went to bed by ten o'clock, which made the gesture all the more touching.

I'd met Raoul four years ago, while I was finishing my master's degree in vocal performance. Goaded by a colleague into taking a more active interest in the arts, Raoul had attended a recital I was performing in. It had been the worst performance of my life. My usual accompanist had been ill and her replacement wasn't familiar with the pieces I'd chosen to perform and I'd had to cover for his mistakes while performing in front of an audience. My nerves had come close to paralyzing me that night and I'd heard a rumor that a casting director from the opera house would be in the audience, which had added to my distress. Raoul had lingered after the performance to congratulate me. He'd insisted on walking me back to the subway station and had stopped along the way to pick up a bouquet of flowers from a street vendor.

At first, I'd questioned whether I could date someone from the university. Raoul was seven years older than me, had finished his PhD, and was beginning an academic career. Always a gentleman, Raoul had been patient but persistent. After a few cautious dates, we were spending every weekend together. When my father died in a car accident, Raoul invited me to move in with him. Feeling lost, and wondering how I'd afford my apartment without my father's income, I agreed and gave my landlord two months' notice.

That first apartment had been a cramped one-bedroom in a turn-of-the-century brick building in Chinatown. It was a third-floor walk-up and we'd had to be creative to fit most of our furniture, clothing and books into the small space. Between the two of us, we owned nine shelves' worth of books. After I began my position at the opera house, we moved to a larger apartment in a new, low-rise building. Having fewer neighbors and more space meant a second bedroom that Raoul used for work and I used for vocal practice.

In our new home, our relationship had strengthened. He found my creativity charming and inspiring. I found that his academic personality had a centering effect on me. Raoul, eager to marry and start a family, had proposed earlier this year. In love and content with our peaceful, calm partnership, I accepted.

I needed to tell him about Erik, I decided. Honesty demanded it. If Raoul was uncomfortable, I would ask Erik to meet with another university representative on Saturday night. Or I'd ask him to meet me somewhere else. Satisfied with that resolution, I straightened my head, leaned into my desk, and began tackling my inbox.

The rest of the day passed in a blur of meetings and projects. I had arranged follow-up meetings with several prospective donors who'd attended the university's fine arts gala. Seeing the list of upcoming meetings, Karen was pleased and said that she felt certain that "we'd" exceed our annual fundraising target.

In the afternoon, Meg Giry had stopped by my office to thank me for allowing her to attend the gala with such short notice. The younger Giry resembled her mother only in build. The older Giry had straight, dark hair and hazel eyes; her daughter had curly blonde hair and wide green eyes. Meg was friendly and outgoing and spent several minutes at my desk chattering about the dance patrons that she'd met at the gala and their interest in her graduate work. I listened with polite interest until Erik's name was mentioned.

"And Erik St. Clair – I've never seen him out before – but he didn't stay very long. He's a friend of maman's, you know," she said. "They've known each other since I was very small."

"I didn't realize – how did they meet?" I asked, keeping my eyes on my computer screen and feigning disinterest.

"I think maman was a friend of Erik's family," Meg said. "She doesn't talk about him very much. He's very quiet, almost reclusive. The mask, you know."

I didn't know. But, insead, I replied with, "I can't imagine."

My response must have sounded automatic, since Meg straightened and took a step back from my desk.

"My gosh! I'm sorry to take up so much of your time, Christine. I should let you work. But thanks again for inviting me to the gala. I had a great time."

"I'm glad that you were able to attend and I hope to see you at more events," I said, meaning the words. Meg was bright, talkative and had a knack for slipping into conversations and social events with ease. Raised by a woman like Antoinette Giry, she was unafraid of even the most austere patrons and art lovers. Her youth and optimism sparked instant friendships.

"Have a great day," Meg said before bouncing out through my office door. "I hope to see you around campus!"

The small room deflated after she left and I leaned against my desk, wishing away the last hour of the day. I needed to get home, needed to take a hot bath and, after he came home from teaching his evening class, try to explain some of this to Raoul. I rehearsed in my head: "Raoul, one of the guests at the gala invited me to his private box at the opera house. I turned him down, of course. But he sent flowers to my office this morning and I have reason to think he may have given a large sum of money to the university and may have had a hand in destroying a very old piano belonging to the music department. And he wears a mask."

There were a lot of ands in my explanation, I thought. And Raoul would ask questions that I didn't have answers to. No doubt, he'd question my hunch that Erik had been my mystery donor. And he would question my professional obligation to find out whether I was correct. An obligation that would demand that I attend the opening night of _Don Quichotte_.

Raoul trusted me. More than ever before, I was relying on that trust.

Feeling frustrated, I clicked open the web browser on my computer and typed "Erik St. Clair" into the search bar. As I suspected, I found very little. No social media profiles. No news clippings. A basic company website that contained no biographical information. Remembering a trick one of the IT guys had taught me, I copied the hyperlink of the company website and pasted it into a WHOIS domain name look-up service to find out who owned his company's site. I found nothing – whoever had created had used a proxy to register their domain name. My frustration increased and I let out a loud groan.

"Not feeling well?" a sympathetic coworker asked, passing my desk.

"No, no I'm not," I answered. "Actually, I think I'm going to head home early tonight. I've had a massive headache since the weekend."

"Hope you feel better soon," she chirped automatically.

"I hope so too," I said, glancing again at my blank computer screen and wishing that I had more information.

Buoyed by my decision to leave early, I sent a quick note to Karen to let her know that I was on my way out before gathering my things and leaving the office. If I was quick, I'd be able to catch Raoul before he left for his evening class.

My journey home was a two-minute walk to the nearest subway station and then a ten-minute ride to my stop, followed by a ten-minute walk to my apartment. While I'd learned to drive as a teenager, I'd never owned a car of my own and didn't intend to for as long as possible. Instead, Raoul and I had chosen to live closer to the center of the city, where we could walk or take transit to get anywhere we needed to go.

We lived in a four-storey brick apartment complex that was built in the late forties. While the outer walls showed their age, the inside of the building had been updated with a buzzer system, an elevator and new flooring in the common areas. Each unit was heated by sturdy white radiators, which gave off a gauzy warmth in the winter and became useful places to hang wet towels during the summer months.

Raoul was just about to leave. We met in the doorway and stepped awkwardly around each other, our winter coats adding bulk to our steps.

"Christine! You're home early," he said and pulled me into a tight hug. He was smiling widely behind flushed cheeks, practically vibrating with excitement. "I just got a call from my department head – you won't believe the news."

"What is it?" I asked, setting my bags down on an end table.

"I texted you just a minute ago. I've been invited to present some of my graduate work at an international symposium on classical history this week," he said, spitting the words out in a rush.

"International?" I questioned.

"The university is flying me to Berlin. You won't believe the people at this conference – tenured professors from the Ivy Leagues, Christine, from the top universities in Europe! One of their presenters fell ill and the organizers asked me to step in at the last minute. What an honour!"

"Raoul, slow down. When are you leaving? This is so sudden."

My fiancé calmed instantly, his face stilling into a soft frown. "I'm leaving tomorrow morning, if it's all right with you, of course. I'll only be gone a week."

"A week?" I echoed.

"You could come with me, you know. Be a tourist while I'm at the conference. I know we're saving for the wedding, but we haven't set a date and I'd love to have you there with me."

"I can't, Raoul. I have work, meetings with donors. And it's almost Christmas. We haven't finished our shopping yet."

"Oh," he said, shoulders slumping.

"Any other time and I would go with you," I said. "But I want you to go. You'll meet some incredible historians and academics who share your interests. It's important for your career, Raoul."

At this, he brightened again, his soft lips stretching into a gentle smile.

"Thank you for understanding sweetheart. I really do have to run or I'll be late for my lecture. I need to cancel my next two classes and give the students in my first-year class an extension on their assignments. I'll be in my office late tonight, but we'll talk more when I get home, okay?"

"Okay," I agreed, squeezing his hand in encouragement.

Raoul leaned over to plant a kiss on the top of head, mussing my curls with his stubbled cheeks. "I love you," he murmured, pulling my hair back into place and tucking a stray curl behind my left ear.

"I love you too," I whispered before watching him disappear out the door.

After he left, I pulled off my boots and hung my jacket in the hall closet. Because Raoul worked sporadic hours and did much of his marking and planning at home, I rarely had the apartment to myself and I found that I enjoyed the echoing quiet. I padded down the hallway in sock-covered feet and walked into the bathroom, where I poured soaps and salts into the tub and began to run the water for a bath.

Like many small children, I was happiest when I was in water. As an adult, I loved going to the beach, swimming in pools, and taking long baths. Satisfied that there were enough bubbles forming in the water, I pulled off my blazer and slipped out of my tank top, pencil skirt, and underthings. Naked, I tiptoed back to the kitchen to fetch candles, matches, and a glass of red wine.

Later, as I lay in the bath, I contemplated the next several days without Raoul. Since he was gone for a week, I had the perfect opportunity to wrap the gifts I'd gotten him for Christmas. I could also do a couple projects around the apartment, or go on a girls' night with a few friends. Or go see the opening of _Don Quichotte_ with Erik on Saturday, I thought. Immediately, I felt a twinge of guilt.

But. It was just an opera. With a man who'd sent me flowers.

I huffed, expelling the tension that was twisting my stomach into gummy worms. It wasn't fair to make assumptions. I didn't _know_ what Erik's intentions were. Perhaps he was an eccentric man who sent flowers instead of emails? Hmmpf.

Still. Raoul would be away for several days. While this seemed like something I _should_ tell my fiancé, there was no reason it couldn't wait.

I grimaced. It seemed _wrong_ somehow to run to Raoul and to tell him - what exactly? That a wealthy man had spoken four sentences to me at a work event, spotted my engagement ring, and invited me to join him at the opera. It didn't make sense. Or I was overthinking it. Telling Raoul could wait until he returned from Berlin, I decided. _If_ there was something worth telling.

Satisfied that I was sparing myself an uncomfortable conversation, I took another sip of wine and sank further into my liquid nest of hot water and rose-scented bubbles.

After a solid twenty minutes spent relaxing in the tub, I emerged, slightly wrinkled, and returned to my regular evening activities: cooking dinner, watching a bit of television, and practicing some of the more challenging pieces I'd performed as a student. After changing career tracks, singing was no longer the central focus of my life. Still, I wanted to maintain the tone and range I'd worked so hard to attain.

The second bedroom of our apartment functioned as office space for Raoul (though he preferred to work in the kitchen or living room, closer to the television) and music studio space for me. The room contained shelves of history and music books, my record and CD collections, a small desk and chair, an armchair, and a modest sound system. When Raoul was in class or grading papers, I occupied my time in this room and, of all the spaces in the apartment, it was the only room that truly felt like _mine_.

In the next hour, I rehearsed from _La Bohème_. At the opera house, I'd sung in the chorus, contributing backing vocals and harmonies to support the main cast. In my studio, with no one to hear me, I sang the part of Mimi, the leading soprano role. More than two years had passed since my last performance and I missed the discipline and rigour of auditions, memorization, rehearsal, and production. My evenings in the small bedroom were a wistful indulgence, a slow goodbye to a life I'd left behind.

Some nights, I fooled myself into thinking that I could rejoin the opera company, work my way up into more challenging roles. It was a gamble. I was 27 now and wouldn't be able to compete for ingénue roles after I crossed into thirties.

More practically, there was Raoul to think of, his needs to consider. My fiancé was well into his thirties and growing more vocal about his desire to marry and start a family. I'd said that I wanted the same things. Any indecision I might have had wasn't worth jeopardizing a secure, comfortable relationship with a man who loved me.

And so, two months ago, when Raoul had dropped to his knee during a walk along the bluffs, I'd said yes.


	3. Chapter 3

_Welcome back! I've got a terrible cold and almost didn't get this chapter up on time. Now that it's ready to go, I can hide under my duvet with a good book and a mug of tea._

* * *

 **Chapter Three**

I went to the airport with Raoul the next morning, checking and double-checking that he had everything he needed for his trip to Germany. Boarding pass, passport, reading material, toiletries, copies of his CV, credit cards, extra clothes. Focusing on real, tangible needs kept my mind busy.

Raoul, I think, appreciated the care and attention. When his flight was called, he pulled me in for a tight hug and, his whiskered cheeks rubbing against the smooth skin of my cheeks.

We kissed and he ran his fingertips up my jawline, over my ears, and into my hair. He would be back before I knew it, he assured me. One last kiss on my forehead, his breath warm and minty.

And then he was off. I stood at the terminal doors and watched Raoul check his suitcase and walk through to the security line. His black wool coat hugged his masculine frame and his blue scarf loose beneath shaggy blonde hair. Ignoring the flutter of nerves in my belly, I swallowed my urge to run over and give him one last hug. He was perfect.

Without Raoul at home, the rest of the week edged along slowly. I stayed later at the office, letting the extra work absorb some of my evening hours. Just last week, I'd relished having a night alone. A whole week was less of a treat. I'd become accustomed to the sound of Raoul's pen scratching on paper, the smell of peppermint tea steeping in a pot, and the sight of stray stubble in the corners of the bathroom counter. I'd never truly lived alone; before moving in with Raoul, I'd kept my rent costs down by living with a succession of roommates. And before that, I'd lived with my father in a small house in the suburbs.

Raoul had been in touch through the week, sending excited emails and calling me over Skype. He was having a wonderful week in Berlin, learning from fellow academics and exchanging ideas with respected professors in his field. Each email included dozens of "interesting" links to scholarly articles and research abstracts. I scanned the titles of each piece, but didn't delve any further. It was enough that Raoul was excited and enjoying his foray abroad.

I spent Saturday morning elbowing my way through markets and malls, picking up last-minute Christmas gifts and wrapping supplies. It seemed that everyone else in the city had the same plans and the subways, streets, and stores were packed with people laden with bags and boxes. Since we were saving for a wedding, Raoul and I had decided to spend modestly this year and buy only small gifts for close family members.

Finding small, meaningful gifts for Raoul's older sister and her wealthy husband was a challenge and I poked through several shops in Kensington Market before choosing a handmade cheese board and knife set. By the time I reached home, satisfied with my purchases, it was almost suppertime. Glancing nervously at the clock on the wall, I set down my bags and opened the fridge to reheat yesterday's take-out. Erik had said that he would arrive at seven, which left me an hour to eat and get dressed. More than enough time, I reasoned.

My supper of korma and rice was spicy and satisfying. Raoul detested Indian food and, any anytime he was out for the evening, I ordered take-out from the family restaurant two blocks away from our building. The delivery was quick and the spice in the curry left my cheeks warm.

After eating, I washed and put away the dishes, taking my time. If Erik arrived early, he could very well wait outside. Only after I'd given my kitchen a wipe down and tidy, did I walk down the hall to the bedroom to get dressed. Having spent two years working for the opera house, I'd amassed a small collection of dresses suitable for an opening night performance. Knowing that I needed to look more professional than seductive, I ignored the red and low-cut gowns and opted for an snug blue and lilac gown that covered my body from neck to ankle. Attractive, but modest.

When I was a child, my hair had been my enemy. My mother had been mixed Japanese-American. Though she'd died shortly after I was born, I'd inherited her thick, dark hair. My father, a Swede, had passed on his blue-grey eyes and messy curls. Their mixed genes had left me with coffee-hued hair that fell past my shoulders in thick waves and tangled easily. Like my mother, I was petite: five-foot-two and slight of build. As I grew into an adult, I learned how to tame my hair with leave-in conditioner. In time, vocal lessons perfected my posture and taught me how to stand tall and straight. Into my mid-twenties now, I'd left behind the small, skinny girl and become a confident woman who could hold a stage or address a crowd.

The door buzzed. Erik. Ignoring it for a moment, I put the finishing touches on my makeup. Powder over my cheekbones, a final swipe of mascara, and a touch of berry-tinted balm on my lips. As a vocal student and, then, as a member of an opera chorus, I'd grown used to applying heavy stage makeup to contour my face and make my features stand out from a distance. Outside of performances, I preferred a lighter hand that better flattered my almond-shaped eyes and pale skin.

Satisfied that I was presentable, I buzzed Erik into the building. Idly, I wondered how he'd found my address and whether he knew which unit I lived in. I supposed that, like me, he had resources to find that kind of information. One of my questions was answered with a soft knock on my apartment door.

I opened the door part way to let Erik know that I'd be out as soon as I'd put on my coat. Before letting me speak, he'd placed a gloved hand on the handle and pushed the door open to let himself in. I stepped back to accommodate his tall frame. Erik was at least six-foot-three, perhaps taller. His head came close to grazing the top of the door frame on his way in.

"You look lovely," he said. His words were soft, his voice deep and velvety.

My theatre companion was dressed in an expensive black dinner jacket, with matching black pants and a starched linen dress shirt. His polished leather shoes looked as if they'd never been worn. Again, he was wearing a white mask over the left side of his face. Tonight's mask looked to be made of leather or a stiff, synthetic fabric.

"Thank you," I said, keeping my tone crisp. "I'm almost ready to leave."

I slid open the hall closet and pulled a white wool coat from its hanger. Erik took the garment from his hands and moved to stand behind me and help me get dressed. I paused, the independent woman in me wanting to snatch my coat from him and put it on myself. It would do no good to offend him now and then have to sit in a theatre box with him for two hours, I reasoned. Setting my jaw into a gentle smile, I accepted his assistance and slid my arms through the sleeves.

"White is very becoming on you," he said, running his fingers gently down my arms to smooth out the fabric. "Now come – I have a car waiting outside and I assume that you have questions for me. You've had an eventful week, no?"

"So it was you!" I exclaimed.

"I don't know which 'it' you're referring to, my dear," Erik replied, the slightest of smiles appearing on his lips. With the mask covering the left side of his face, the smile made him look roguish, like a movie villain about to twirl his moustache.

"The flowers at my office. The anonymous donation to the fine arts faculty. The destruction of a very old piano."

"I neither accept nor deny your accusations," he said. "But if you're referring to the grand piano in the university's performance hall, then I must say that the instrument was in an unacceptable state of repair. And that _the culprit_ did the university a service by ridding the fine arts faculty of such an embarrassing musical instrument."

It was a confession in all but letter.

"But why?" I asked, my heels clicking on the linoleum floor of my building's hallways as I followed Erik to the front door.

"Perhaps a method of persuasion. Perhaps to garner someone's attention."

Persuasion? Attention? If he was flirting with me, I didn't understand why. I was pretty, yes, but there were thousands of women in the city. Beautiful women, talented women, younger women. _Single_ women. Erik and I had only met once. Beyond a _possible_ physical attraction, he didn't know me at all.

Physical attraction. That thought caused my stomach to wince. If I was honest with myself, I _was_ attracted to Erik. He was a powerful man, mysterious, and dominant. In silence, I followed Erik out of the building and into the backseat of a waiting car. With each step, I tried to convince myself that attraction to a man like Erik was normal, that it wasn't a betrayal of Raoul or of the promises I'd made to him when I'd agreed to our engagement. I was helpless to resist the magnetic force of his personality.

Once in the car, I sat as far from Erik as the seats would allow. If he noticed my attempt at physical distance, he gave no indication. He seemed comfortable with our silence – too comfortable – so I tried a different conversational angle. "I found you in the university's alumni database. You're a science and business graduate – why the interest in the fine arts faculty?"

"I like to support my friends," he said. "Antoinette Giry and her daughter Meg are trusted acquaintances of mine. And I've always held an interest in the arts, particularly music. Until recently, I was a supporter of the city opera house."

"Until recently?" I echoed. "What changed?"

"Their creative team has been lacking direction and their performances have suffered for it," he said, his voice rising. "We used to have one of the world's best opera companies and now the city behaves as if it is embarrassed to have such an establishment within its boundaries. The arts have always been under-supported, but after the market crashed, public support has been fixed solely on industries that produce the greatest profits."

"But you're a businessman," I interjected, trying to gain a foothold into his thought process.

"I may be a businessman, but I have an appreciation for the integrity of the arts. A theatre's mission is to inspire and to entertain, to cultivate curiosity and to reflect the world back at us. Art does not exist to create profits for investors. I could say the same of your university. The top fundraisers in the _development_ department earn more in a year than most tenured faculty members do. Where are the priorities?"

I'd asked myself the same questions at both the opera house and the university. I'd even answered those questions to donors and patrons. I knew that Erik was right, but the spokesperson in me was chafing at his bold assertions. The arts world had changed – especially in the last five years. Increasingly, creative houses were asked to prove their relevance, which was becoming synonymous with profitability.

"I admire what you do, truly," Erik continued. "But an arts faculty should not have to grovel to supporters in order to subsist."

"If support is what the arts need, then why did you withdraw yours from the opera house?" I asked.

"Touché, my dear. I've chosen to support the opera house in more _direct_ ways."

The car halted, preventing me from inquiring what exactly Erik meant by his comment. Perhaps he moonlighted as a member of the chorus? The image of Erik St. Clair in grease paint and a candy-coloured costume flashed through my mind and I held back a laugh.

The driver of the car announced that we were outside the theatre. In old-world fashion, Erik stepped out of the car first and walked around to open my door, all in the time it took me to undo my seatbelt and finger-comb my hair. I told myself that I was accepting his gallant gestures out of politeness to a university supporter. Still, I couldn't deny the tingle of excitement that ran through my spine when he grasped my hand as I stepped out of the car.

"And here we are," Erik said. He kept his gloved hand clasped around mine as we walked through the crowd, past the usher and ticket line and took me into a side elevator to the private boxes. In my brief look at the crowd, I spotted several regular theatregoers – city councillors, prominent CEOs, philanthropists – many of whom had been at last weekend's arts gala.

Erik's box was centered over the audience and offered an excellent view of the stage. On our way in, he showed a glossy black pass to the attendant who, in turn, handed Erik a wine list.

Erik gestured to the seat on the right and I sat, careful not to wrinkle my dress. Two programs lay flat on a table between the chairs. I selected one and scanned the cast list for familiar names. Predictably, Guidicelli and Piangi were in the leading soprano and tenor roles. I was surprised to see that some of my friends from the chorus had moved up into supporting roles.

At Erik's request, the box attendant returned with a respectably-aged bottle of merlot, a bottle opener, and two crystal glasses. My companion uncorked the wine and poured two glasses, offering one to me.

"A toast," I suggested. "To the arts."

"And to new ventures," Erik added. He took a slow sip from his glass, careful not to bump the rim against his mask.

I took a careful sip. The wine was dark and spicy, strong for my tastes, but very good. Best to limit myself to one glass.

Below us, the orchestra began to play and the stage curtain opened, revealing a platform populated with actors and set pieces. I knew the plot of _Don Quichotte_ , but had never seen it performed on stage. I watched, fascinated, as Carla Guidicelli and Leon Piangi dominated the stage, their voices filling the cavernous space of the opera house.

"She began her career in Spain, you know," I whispered to Erik during the intermission. "She took leading roles in Paris, Rome, and Prague before coming here. She's fantastically talented."

"She certainly thinks so," Erik snorted. "You would be a better choice than her for this role."

"Pardon?" I said, wanting clarification. He knew that I had been a chorus member, yes, and perhaps he'd caught a glimpse of me performing. But he'd never heard me sing on my own.

" _You're_ fantastically talented, Christine," he replied. "I've heard you in recitals and in opera rehearsals. It pains me to see you in such an administrative role."

"You've seen me perform?" I asked, incredulous.

"Of course. Several times," he answered. "The box we're sitting in tonight is a private box that I reserve each season. You were a chorus member for two years. Before that, I occasionally attended the university's music recitals to find new talent. And that's where I found you, my dear."

I swallowed uneasily. It sounded as if Erik had been following my career not just for the last week, but for the last several years. From the university to the opera house and then back to the university. If that was true, what was his motivation? And why had he waited until now to speak to me? The questions danced on my tongue, demanding to be asked. Yet I held back. Erik was watching me, his tall frame casting my body and mind into shadow. Businessman, architect, musician, scientist – but who was he really? I felt the cold tickle of ice down my spine. My tongue turned to lead in my mouth. I was afraid.

Erik's topaz eyes softened from behind his mask and he reached into my lap to cover my left hand with his right. His palm was cool and the pads of his fingers were rough. With his thumb, he stroked the skin on the back of my hand, rubbing little circles. An intimate, familiar touch.

"I had no idea," I said, pulling my hand away. _Raoul_! "I – I'd never met you, never seen you in the audience."

"I do my best not to be seen. I'm most effective when people can see my work, but not my person. Like a player pulling the strings of a marionette."

The simile was an apt one. And Erik, who had interests in a diverse mix of fields, held a great number of strings in this city. It was a wonder that he'd been able to stay out of the public eye. Yet, the comparison to a puppet offended me. I swallowed thickly.

"I won't be your marionette, Erik. I'm here with you as a representative of the university. My colleagues and I are very curious to find out if you know anything about an anonymous gift that was made last weekend."

"Your _colleagues_ are interested?" Erik repeated. "I highly doubt that you've told your colleagues anything concerning your suspicions. But, if you must know, I did make a gift to the fine arts faculty. I'm a sentimental man and the arts are always a worthy cause."

His blunt admission took me by surprise – it had been too easy. My smartphone was stashed inside my handbag and my fingers were itching to email my director with this piece of news.

"You will, of course, keep this confidential," Erik continued. "I'm not interested in being hounded by teams of fundraisers looking to attract my interest. I'm perfectly willing to share my good fortune without persuasion from your colleagues."

"But – don't you want to be acknowledged?" I asked. No one gave money altruistically; more often than not, philanthropy was just good PR. "For that kind of gift, we could name the theatre after you. Or we could dedicate a scholarship in your name, or –"

"I'm not interested. The best thanks you can give me is not to waste the money. And not to let it sit in some university endowment fund for decades. Now, if you please, can we move on to more pleasant subjects?"

"I, what? If you like," I answered, deferring to him.

"Why did you stop performing, Christine?"

I swallowed, preparing a well-rehearsed answer: "Music is a demanding and unstable profession. I spent years in school, followed by two years here, in the opera house, and I wasn't getting anywhere. An ordinary job and an ordinary paycheck wasn't a bad trade."

"You have such talent! If you'd stayed in the opera company, you would have been given lead roles by now."

"No, I wouldn't have. The managers never noticed me and I was never crass enough to try to curry their favour."

"You would have been given a lead role; I would have insisted upon it."

"I appreciate your kind words, truly I do, but I've chosen a different line of work and I'm quite successful at it."

"There's no art in raising money. And you _are_ an artist."

I was becoming exasperated now and I could feel my cheeks reddening. How dare he tell me what I should or shouldn't do with my career? I was a respected professional, with strong connections to the world of music that I loved. While fundraising didn't inspire the same flights of passion as singing did, I enjoyed the challenge of securing support for others.

"I think we should end this meeting."

Erik's set his wine glass down and levelled his gaze to mine. His molars were clenched together and his lips were pursed in a solid line. His mask, cotton white, concealed half of his expression.

"I'd like you to stay," he said. The words were gentle, a firm whisper. "I've waited too long to meet you and I don't wish to waste this evening. I'm – I'm sorry if I've made you uncomfortable. Trust that I respect your decisions, though I respect your talent more."

An apology. From Erik St. Clair. I suspected that that was a rare thing.

"All right then. Let's – let's just enjoy the rest of the performance," I suggested.

For the rest of the intermission, Erik kept to neutral topics of conversation – planned improvements to the university campus, city politics, books we'd both enjoyed. In the next few minutes, I found that Erik had a fondness for modern British literature, had completed his studies by distance, and felt disdain for most career politicians. After a week of quiet solitude, I found the easy banter and the rich wine relaxing. When the theatre lights dimmed to signal the beginning of the next act, I was surprised to feel disappointed.

The second half of _Don Quichotte_ was nothing short of spectacular. The orchestra and the singers filled the theatre with rich, full music and the dancers kept the audience's attention fixed on the stage. Piangi, a portly gentleman with graying hair, was convincing in his role as a 'knight errant' trying to revive chivalry and win the affections of the hapless Dulcinea. The story, one of the most famous in Western literature, came to life on the stage and was enriched by music and dance.

When the curtain fell across the stage, I stood in my seat to applaud. Erik remained sitting, wine glass in hand, and watched me with an eyebrow raised.

"An adequate performance, I think," he said, raising his glass to Mr. Reyer, the orchestra conductor.

"Adequate?" I repeated. "You're a difficult man to impress."

He chose not to reply to my tease and, instead, set down his glass and gripped my hand.

"It will take the audience several minutes to gather their belongings and indulge in chatter before they leave the building. If you're agreeable, I'd like to show you a part of the opera house that most patrons never see."

"I worked here for two years – I've been inside every room."

"I never said that I was showing you a room."

"Where, exactly?" I asked, picking up my handbag.

"Just trust me," he answered, tightening his grip on my fingers.

Trust him? I knew so little about Erik. And he'd been silently watching my career for years. In the week I'd known him, he'd been mysterious, elusive, and reckless. I still wasn't sure if this evening was a business meeting or a date. I didn't, couldn't trust him. But, if we were in the opera house, then we were on familiar turf. I was safe here, I reasoned.

We left the box and wound through the hall closer to the stage. Pausing at a door, Erik pulled a key from his pocket and undid the lock. Beyond the door was the top of the stage, the scaffolding and the pulleys for the set pieces. I'd seen this part of the opera house on my first tour of the place, but hadn't returned since. After a performance, the technicians would be descending to join the musicians and cast members backstage.

The passage ahead was dimly lit and I followed slowly, taking care not to trip or misstep in my heels. Looking around, I saw lighting equipment, tools, and rags in piles against the walls. Steel cables thick as my thumb ran in parallel lines from pulleys beside the stage. The cables and tools cast crisscrossing shadows against the walls. I could almost believe the ballet girls' stories about a ghost lurking in these halls.

Erik pushed ahead, bringing us to stand before a second locked door. Again, he had a key and I wondered how he'd procured a master key to the opera house. I didn't think that any of the patrons carried keys and Erik had said that he now supported the opera house in "direct" ways.

"Do you work for the opera house?" I asked.

"In a capacity, yes."

"Explain please," I demanded, pulling my hand out of his grip and crossing my arms. I was getting tired of Erik's vague answers.

He paused halfway through the doorway and looked back at me. In the semidarkness, his golden eyes appeared to glow and his mask disappeared into the pale skin of his face. He watched me and, in the eerie darkness, I wondered if he was sizing me up as cat does a toy mouse. A draft blew down through the door and I shivered as the cold air blew through the thin silk of my dress.

"I provide… artistic direction and give the managers advice on which shows to run, how the sets should be designed, and which performers to select for the cast and orchestra. Over the years, I've developed a special relationship with the theatre. Which brings certain privileges," he said, holding up the master key and gesturing for me to follow him through the door.

A tight spiral staircase awaited us. The dusty steps twisted inside a hollow brick column. My stomach clenched when I noted the stairs went up at least another two floors and that the steps didn't have any backs to them. Panic fluttered through my belly and I paused at the bottom.

"I'll be right behind you," Erik said, brushing my waist with his hand to remind me of his presence.

Gripping the metal railing, I ascended the stairs, one slow step at a time. Cautious of my choice in footwear, I tested each step, balancing my weight on my toes first. Fortunately, the steps were solid, not grated, and there was nothing for my heels to catch on. It took a full four or five minutes to climb the two storeys. If Erik was impatient, he didn't show it. He kept pace with me, keeping a form on the railing two steps behind me.

At the top of the stairs, I waited on a landing while Erik unlocked the last door.

On the other side: white, snowy winter.


	4. Chapter 4

_Better late than never? I was out of town for a conference over the last week, which threw off my writing and editing schedule._

 _The next few chapters are some of the heaviest in this story. Buckle up._

* * *

 **Chapter Four**

A thin layer of frost covered the roof of the opera house, giving the black asphalt a greyish cast.

Snowflakes drifted in lazy spirals from the clouds to the ground. The night air cooled my breath into misty puffs. It was the second or third snowfall of the season and the flakes were melting as soon as they hit the roof. A sharp gust of wind rattled the flagpoles. Instinctively, I pulled my coat tighter around my shoulders before stepping outside.

"We don't have to stay long," Erik said. "I thought you might enjoy the view."

The opera house was on the west side of the downtown core and, from our vantage point on the roof, I could see office and condo towers lit up all around us. Turn-of-the-century brownstones and gothic churches added charm and history to the landscape of glass and steel. Several storeys below us, cars sped through the city's arterial roads, their lights tracking the gridlines of the city streets. To the south, I could see boats in the harbour and a plane landing on the island airport.

I crossed my arms over my chest, bracing myself from the cold, and gingerly stepped out onto the frozen roof. Five more steps brought me to the edge. A hip-high railing prevented me from peering over the edge. By my count, we were eight storeys up from street level.

The breeze caught the tail of my scarf, pulling the fabric across my face. With my vision obscured, I wobbled lightly, heart racing in sudden fear of falling. Quickly, I tucked my scarf back into the neck of my coat and rested my hands against the cold metal railing. I'd lived in the city for years and had looked out from much higher vantage points. This was the highest I'd been without the protection of a glass window. Trying not to betray my fear of heights, I leaned into the railing and fixed my eyes on the view of the harbour.

Erik joined me, taking his place to my left. His mask faced away from me and, from this angle, I was able to study the right half of his face and imagine what he would look like without the covering. Golden eyes, paled skin, thick black hair curling around his neck. He wasn't handsome, exactly. His lips were thin and his cheekbones were sharp, the angles combining into a harsh visage. His eyes were serious, authoritative, giving him the look of a military commander in a classical painting. And he was tall – at least six-foot-three, or a full foot taller than me.

"I don't think I've ever had a business meeting on a rooftop," I said, trying to melt the tension with some teasing.

"This isn't a business meeting, Christine," Erik replied, covering my hand on the railing with his own. "If it was, you would be back at your apartment now after having met in a boardroom with one of my associates. We both know that this night was never intended as a simple meeting."

 _Touché_. I chose to respond to his prod with a conversational volley of my own. "Erik, you haven't been very direct with me."

"I haven't? I bought you a drink last weekend, I sent flowers to your office, and I brought you to the opening night of an opera. Some might say that I've been _very_ direct."

"Erik, I'm engaged!" I was exasperated now.

"But not married."

"And if I was, would you respect that boundary?"

Erik's lips hardened into a scowl. "We could spend all night volleying 'what if' scenarios between us, Christine."

He was staring at me, waiting for a reaction. Guilt and excitement warred within me, twisting my stomach. A part of me wanted to stay, to explore these feelings and test the limits of the attraction between us. Another part of me wanted to be good, to protect what was sane and safe in my life. To run away from this emotional mess of an evening and forget I'd ever stood on this rooftop.

"I love Raoul," I blurted, as if that was the answer to everything.

"Do you?" Erik asked, daring me to repeat the admission. "Does your young man excite you? Does he challenge you? Does he inspire you? Does he make you mad with wanting? I could be those things for you, Christine. And, with time, you could learn to love me."

"I – what?" I stammered, trying to process the meaning of Erik's questions and ...admission? What was this? Had we fallen into an Italian opera? A fairy tale? Normal people didn't confess their love on rooftops. The facts were plain: Erik was a businessman, I was a fundraiser. We shared a keen interest in the arts and in music, but we were professionals. The whole evening – all of Erik's grandiose proclamations and gestures – smelled of a cheap romance novel.

The loyal fiancée in me wanted to defend Raoul, to tell Erik how he'd supported me and stayed with me after the death of my father. How he'd become my partner and my dearest friend. How all of the passion and madness that Erik was promising bound to fade with any partnership.

But the words never came and, in the void where they should have been spoken, Erik kissed me.

I'd expected a rougher, more possessive kiss from a man like Erik. Yet his lips were soft and pliant against mine. I closed my eyes, giving in for just a moment. My cheeks pinked with heat and my stomach fluttered with the dizzy energy of an effervescent dream. Spellbound, I reached up to rest my arm over Erik's shoulder and wound my fingers into the soft waves of his hair. Each strand was thick, coarse, yet the curls slid through my fingertips like satin ribbons.

Touch is an overlooked sensation and, as we stood together on the roof, I wanted to explore, to _feel_ the rub of his mouth over mine, the touch of his tongue along the seam of my lips, the freshness of his cool skin against my blushing cheeks. I was disappointed then when Erik broke the kiss and then, after registering the traitorous emotion, I felt a cold flush of guilt. _What would Raoul think?_ I'd betrayed him. And, worse, I'd wanted to further that betrayal.

"Tell me you don't want this and I'll walk away," he whispered, running his gloved fingers over my cheeks and forehead.

"We can't," I said, spitting out the foul-tasting words.

"Be careful there: 'can't' is very different from 'won't.'"

"We can't," I repeated, whispering now. "I won't say that there isn't a part of me that wants this, but we can't. I have…" I struggled for the correct words to illustrate the finality of the commitment I'd already made. "I have other obligations."

"What about tonight?" Erik asked. "You've already strayed from your obligations. You accepted my invitation, you followed me to this rooftop, and you kissed me back."

"Erik –" I interrupted.

"Let me finish, Christine," he interjected. "We've come this far. Spend the night with me. Anywhere, anything you like. We can walk the streets until the sun comes up. We can find a jazz bar and have too many glasses of wine. We can drive out of the city and have breakfast in a greasy diner. Anything you like."

"It won't change anything, Erik. This will still be wrong." I turned away from him and looked down at the cars and pedestrians moving through the streets.

"But at least we'll have something to justify your need to feel so damned guilty about this," he said, huffing with frustration. He grabbed my shoulders, pulling me to face him again. His eyes, warm and solid like ancient amber, were glowing in the moonlight. "I'm grasping at straws here. You've got to give me, no, you've got to give _us_ something."

I'm not an impulsive person. All of my adult life, I've envied people who can come to decisions quickly. People who can act. I've always been slow at coming to decisions; I like to weigh my options and dream up 'what if?' scenarios. I don't have many safety nets and I know what can come of bad decisions. I have a gift for empathy, for seeing all perspectives in a situation. If I went with him, I'd be jeopardizing my relationship with Raoul. My impending marriage. _Why had I chosen the word 'impending?'_ There was something inevitable, something looming about marriage to Raoul. I needed to think, to choose. And the fear of choosing the wrong thing, of not choosing the best option with the best consequence, can be paralyzing.

I froze. The air around me seemed to thicken and time lost its grip on my thoughts, which were becoming slurred in my head. Erik's fingers were clutching my upper arms; I could feel his grip through my coat. It was snowing; I could feel the sharp cold and the warm melt of flakes landing on my nose and cheeks. Below us, someone was honking; the obnoxious blare of a horn punctuating the thrum of traffic below us. I was on the roof of the opera house. With Erik St-Clair. And I was running out of made-up reasons to pretend that this was a business meeting. I pictured Raoul, at his hotel in Berlin, eyelashes turned down in sleep. He would be returning tomorrow; what would I tell him?

I studied Erik, memorizing every detail I could about the right side of his face. A small freckle above his eyebrow and crow's feet at the corners of his eyelids. By my guess, he was well into his thirties. Solid. His hands were firm against my arms and his body beckoned with masculine warmth and strength. I wanted to melt into him, feel his - someone's! - arms wrap around me and take this horrible decision away.

Erik was watching me as intently as I was watching him. With our faces this close, the planes of his features were softer and he lost his aura of command. His mask rose and fell over his left cheek as he breathed. I watched, noting the seconds and matching my breaths to his. Air in. Air out. Breathe. He was vulnerable, waiting beside me. And that vulnerability carried a beauty and a charm to it. Could I make this man happy? Was happiness the right goal to pursue?

Everything about Erik was solid, visceral. I was barely able to conjure Raoul's face in my mind and found that I cared less than I should have. Thoughts of Raoul sparked pressures, demands. My fiancé was gently tugging me away, locking me to the trappings of domestic family life.

Erik was dangerous, unknown, but so very tactile. I wanted to feel his lips on me again, wanted to run back inside, out of the cold night air. And I wanted to forget Raoul, if only for a moment.

Wanting won.

"Let's go," I whispered, reaching to pull his hand off my shoulder. His fingers twitched, as if displeased at being moved, but relaxed when I laced my fingers through his. "I'll go wherever you like."

Erik nodded and pulled out his smartphone to call his driver. While he was instructing the man to bring the car out front, I took one last look out at the city. It was about eleven o'clock and the sun had set hours ago. Lights in the windows of stores, offices, and high-rises cast the streets in a palette of grey and yellow. Three blocks north of us, a massive Christmas tree, wrapped in strands of LED lights, stood in front of city hall. Christmas was in four days. Erik stepped behind me, wrapped his arms around my middle and nuzzled kisses over my cheeks.

Hands clasped together, we rushed back inside, down the stairs, and through the opera house. The faster I moved, the less I thought. The other patrons and audience members had already left, leaving the lobby empty and the passageways blessedly clear. We passed through the building, unnoticed, and Erik led me to the front door and into the passenger side of his car. Erik climbed into the driver's seat and pressed a tip into his driver's gloved hand before leaving the man standing at the curb.

"Did you just take his car?" I asked, wondering aloud.

"The car is mine. David works for me as an assistant and a driver. He's been with me for more than three years and I know that he doesn't live far from here. He'll be able to take a taxi home in no time at all."

"Where are we going then?" I asked, watching Erik's profile as we pulled away from the curb and merged with the city traffic. While I'd given him permission to take us anywhere he liked, I was still curious.

"I have an apartment not far from here," he replied, turning to look at me while we were stopped at a red light. "I have a bottle of port that I brought back from England a month ago. I thought you might enjoy sharing it with me."

I nodded, game to let Erik dictate our next move. The two glasses of wine we'd had during the performance of _Don Quichotte_ had left my thoughts fuzzed at the edges. What was another glass? Erik said little as he maneuvered the car through the city streets. Lulled by the motion of the car and the passing lights of other vehicles, I closed my eyes and waited for us to stop.

I must have dozed off because the next thing I was conscious of was Erik's hand on my shoulder, shaking me awake. We were parked in an underground garage. A glance at the dashboard clock showed that I'd only been asleep for about fifteen minutes. Did that put me into REM sleep, deep sleep? I wasn't sure and wondered whether it mattered.

Erik paused, watching me for a moment. Checking on me?

"I haven't changed my mind," I said, reaching over the gearshift to squeeze his hand. The muscles of his fingers were tense underneath the leather of his gloves.

"Good," he said, returning the squeeze and shutting off the ignition.

Again, I thought of Raoul and was conscious of the decision I was making by following Erik out of the car and into the elevator. Erik held my hand through the elevator ride, extinguishing my flicker of guilt with steady conversation on my tastes in music and books.

He'd read many of the same authors I had and we spent several minutes comparing when we'd each read Herman Hesse's _Siddhartha_ . When I'd first read the novel, I was a year into my contract the university and was seriously doubting the twist in my career. Erik, who's read the book when we was much younger, had been more concerned with questions of meaning. What is a meaningful life? Art, he said, is meaning made observable.

My mind was firmly entrenched in the conversation at hand. Unthinking, my feet followed Erik's steps out of the elevator, down a carpeted hallway, and through the painted aluminum door of his apartment. Stepping through the doorway, I took in the furnishings and decorations. A black leather couch long enough for a basketball player to sleep on. Cherry-toned hardwood floors that reflected the light from the floor lamps. Shelves that reached the ceiling were filled with books, records, and CDs. It looked like a cross between an old-world library and a minimalist designer condo. I puzzled over what it meant, what stories his home could tell about the enigmatic man beside me.

"Do you like it?" he asked, his gloved hand lingering on the doorknob.

"It's beautiful," I said, raking my eyes over the paintings on the wall. Clearly, Erik favoured abstract art. The pieces in his living room were a series of geometric shapes and swirls in strong emerald and ochre oil paints. The paintings, like the furniture and the decorations, matched.

"You must have a fantastic decorator," I said, blurting the sentence.

Erik chuckled and wrapped his arm around my waist, his fingers spreading over the fabric of my coat. "Not a decorator, exactly. My assistant, Nadir, arranges my apartments for me. We've worked together for several years and he knows my preferences. I'm glad that you like it," he said. "Does this mean that you'd come back sometime?"

"I don't know how to answer that question," I said, clenching my fingers into a fist. My engagement ring had twisted on my finger and the sapphire now dug into my palm. Damn.

"I apologize. Perhaps, a suggestion then?" Erik said, taking our coats and hanging them in a side closet. "No questions or talk about what happens in the morning. I have my own wishes, of course. But I can refrain from mentioning them."

I nodded. What else could I do? This was all so impulsive and crazy. Could we attach rules to crazy?

I took a step, my heels clacking over the hardwood. _Take off your shoes, Christine!_ I bent down and pushed my thumb into the back of the heel, prying my shoes off one at a time. From my crouching position, Erik seemed to grow several feet. His mask loomed yards above my head and, dizzy, I lost balance and stumbled. A second later, I found myself sitting in a twist with one leg under my bottom and another stretched out, with my dress hitched up to my knees.

"That was embarrassing. And so very awkward," I mumbled, feeling my cheeks burn. "I'm sorry if I scuffed your floor."

"No apologies, Christine," he said, offering a hand to help me up. "Although I may have to rescind my offer of a glass of port if you're not feeling well."

Lightheaded, rushed with spontaneity, yes, but not drunk. I shook my head to indicate that I was all right and accepted his proffered hand. He gave my arm a gentle tug, pulling me into a standing position beside him.

We paused for a moment, standing centimeters apart in the foyer. I felt nervous, like a college freshman on her first serious date. His hand still holding mine, he bent down and kissed me. His lips made the faintest of brushes against mine. He was close – so close that I could smell the wine on his breath and the soap on his neck. His tease of a kiss wasn't enough. Reacting on instinct, I pulled his face down to mine and kissed him back. He groaned, the sound vibrating in his throat.

We parted, panting for breath. My cheeks were warm and my neck felt hot. Mentally, I cursed the wine and the pink flush it gave to my face and neck. On cue, Erik's cool fingers touched the hidden skin behind my right ear and traced a line down my throat and over my collarbone. The brush of cold against hot sent a tingle down my spine. I wondered, for a naughty moment, what it would feel like to have him touch me elsewhere.

"You should come inside," he suggested. "It would be rude for me to keep you standing at the door."

"Oh, yes, thank you," I said, struggling to find the right thing to say in response.

"Would you like to sit down?" he said, gesturing to the couch at the centre of the living area. "I'll fetch that bottle of port. Would you like anything else while I'm in the kitchen?"

"A glass of water, please." The wine had left my tongue feeling thick and heavy in my mouth.

While Erik was gone, I examined the spines of the books and magazines arranged in overlapping piles on the coffee table. Business magazines, two scientific journals, an early Jane Jacobs book, and a leather-bound copy of Milton's _Paradise Lost_ with a creased spine and wrinkled pages.

"Have you read it?" Erik asked, setting a glass of water down on the table next to the book of poems.

"No, I haven't," I admitted. As a music student, I'd seen Milton's poems referenced in dozens of operas, yet I hadn't taken the time to wade through the 17th-century prose on my own. It was the sort of thing that Raoul might have read.

"It's about everything that matters: sin, temptation, God, the Devil, and man in between."

At the word 'temptation,' I winced in discomfort and wondered, again, what I was doing here, in Erik's home, enjoying his kisses and drinking his wine.

"I've upset you," he said, perceptive as ever. "No regrets, Christine. If all was well at home, then you wouldn't have met with me tonight. You're not happy."

It was true, I thought. Raoul was nothing but kind and sweet, and yet I'd found myself wondering if the future he'd planned for us was one I wanted. Whether there might by something else, something more alive. Erik, his eyes the colour of dark honey, was watching me carefully, waiting for me to acknowledge his guess. His forehead wrinkled, nudging his mask ever so slightly. _Why did he wear it?_ I wanted to know. I wanted to know him. Storm cloud that he was, I wanted to bury my head in him and soak up rain, lightning, and thunder. I wanted to ask, to feel, and to kiss his lips a hundred times in an hour.

"I don't want to talk about Raoul." I took a sip of the water, then set the cup down and watched a bead of water run race down the inside of the glass. "I don't. I don't really want to talk at all."

Rapid, heated tableaus. The next moments lit up like flash paper, burning into my memory. We were on the couch together, the bottle of port on the coffee table, uncorked and unpoured. My fingers had been trembling and the zipper on my dress was itching against the skin on my back. Waiting. Fingers in his hair. A throw pillow tumbling to the floor. Blistering kisses. His fingers on my neck, my shoulders, my sides. A tug of a zipper and the tingle of air on uncovered skin.

Gasps for air. His shoulders, his chest. Sinewy and strong. Threaded with scars. _Those didn't come from a boardroom._ Curls of black chest hair. His lips on my belly, making dotted paths between the freckles on my skin. My fingers gripping the waistband of his pants, knuckles tight. Raw need that I hadn't felt in years.

"Are you sure, Christine?"

I wanted to scream and to kiss and to scratch and to fuck and to sweat. _Yes._

Tripping on the roll of dress around my ankles, I followed his lead to his bedroom. The clock on the wall said 2:13 a.m.


	5. Chapter 5

_At long last, chapter five is up. And with it: the garish light of day. Read on for the aftermath of Christine and Erik's nighttime dalliance._

 _Now that I'm through editing pre-drafted content, updates will get further apart. Pesky day job._

 _Thanks again to Ari, His Midnight Music, YoursAnonymous, PhatomFan01, Melstrife, and Dkk5 for reviewing chapter four. Let me know what you think of this installment._

* * *

 **Chapter Five**

Wine and exhaustion won me over and I fell into a pleasant sleep, nudging into semi-consciousness whenever Erik shifted his grip on my waist.

"What time is it?" I mumbled, opening my eyes in the gray darkness.

"A little after four," Erik whispered, smoothing my knotted hair with his fingertips.

In my bleary state, 'a little after four' translated to 'not morning yet.' I rolled over, nestling my cheek into Erik's chest. "I'm so glad," I answered, happy to spend a few more hours like this.

* * *

As the morning encroached, my dreams grew brighter. I tried to burrow further beneath the sheets and noted that the fabric felt lighter and smoother than the flannel sheets I'd had on our bed that winter. I opened my eyes and saw swirls of white plaster on the ceiling above me. Empty grey walls. A warm body against my back.

The gauzy blindfold of sleep was ripped away and memories from last night returned in a cold splash.

 _Erik. Raoul. Erik._

"Good morning, did you sleep well?" Erik asked. Warm lips and a cold mask were pressed to my forehead. Not Raoul.

"I shouldn't be here," I said. My stomach was shaking and I felt a roll of nausea rise from up from my abdomen.

What had I done? _I'd cheated._

I wasn't a cheater. _I was a cheater now._

What had I done to Raoul? What about our wedding?

I needed to get home, to get out of here. _I'd cheated._

I was a good girl – a nice girl – and I'd cheated on a sweet, kind man who loved me. _I could fix this, had to fix this._

"Christine, you're shaking," Erik said, a tremor in his voice. "What's wrong? Talk to me, my dear."

What was wrong? _I'd cheated on Raoul._ Cheated. Cheat. I couldn't shake the word from my thoughts. What was wrong? The fuck was he asking? He'd made this happen. He'd invited me, baited me.

It was him. He was the vile, awful one.

That… wasn't completely right. Blaming Erik was too easy, too convenient. A villain in a mask, tearing engagements asunder? An absurd thought, but laughter couldn't come. My stomach rumbled and turned. I wanted to heave.

I stood up, pulling the sheet with me to cover my body. My dress was on the floor, wrinkled, underwear buried in the folds of fabric. I swiped the garments off the floor and walked out of the bedroom in search of my bra, handbag, and coat.

"Christine, wait," Erik called from the bed. I heard the swish of his legs sliding beneath the sheets.

I ignored him and yanked my clothes in place. My veins were thrumming with anger and my head throbbed with the effects of stress and alcohol. No longer needing its cover, I tossed the sheet over the back of the living room couch.

I heard scuffling and footsteps in the bedroom and turned to see Erik walk out towards me, wearing a pair of black boxers. His thick black hair was a disheveled mess, tufts sticking out around the white of his mask. The morning light revealed a web of faded scars crossing his chest and arms. How did those happen? A flicker of compassion ignited within me. The thinness of the lines suggested a knife injury. Who had hurt him so badly?

My head spun, pity warring with anger and revulsion. It was eight in the morning and I needed to extricate myself from the scene of my infidelity. Sad as Erik's life might have been, I needed to focus.

"Can I make you breakfast?"

"No, I don't want breakfast. I have to go," I said, trying to keep my voice steady. My stomach was twisting into a hard knot and my thoughts were racing in zigzag patterns. Focus on the anger, I told myself. Rage if you have to. Don't let him see you cry.

Erik stepped forward, his arms outstretched and his fingers shaking.

"Christine, wait. Please."

I gave him one last look. His eyes were darker, almost hazel, and glazed over. He was handsome, even in his disheveled and pathetic state. Another reason to go.

In a fog, I picked up my purse and let myself out the front door, bra forgotten. The door swung shut behind me, closing with a thud and a click. Out of his sight, I exhaled, feeling the coil of panic in my belly begin to unwind. One foot in front of the other, I reminded myself as I walked down the hallway and into the elevator. The mirrored walls of the lift reflected my pale, exhausted features.

My hair was a mess. The dark curls were knotted behind my neck. My cheeks were blanched and the skin beneath my eyes was dark and puffy. Again, I asked myself what I'd done. I tried to remember, to pull all of my impulsive actions into a coherent narrative, to find reasons. There had to be reasons.

My head hurt. What then could I do? Go home and face Raoul, of course. I couldn't lie to him. He'd been my best friend for so long and, if there was any hope for repairing the damage I'd done, then I had to be honest with him.

As I walked out of the elevator and outside of the building, I tried to focus, tried to think of what I'd say to him. Tears pricked in my eyes and guilt sunk like a brick in my belly. He would be crushed. His family, which had always been cool to me, would hate me. _I deserved it._

With tears racing from my eyelashes to my chin, I hailed a cab and stammered my address to the driver, an Asian man in his early sixties. Seeing my distress, he turned and asked if I was all right.

"I'll be okay," I lied. "I just need to get home."

The man nodded and passed a box of tissues back for me.

"Traffic's good this morning," he said. "We'll be there in ten minutes. You sure you don't want to stop somewhere, get a tea and use the restroom?"

"No, no, I'm fine."

The driver shook his head and pulled away from the curb. I stared blearily out the window, letting the tears fall down my cheeks. Part of me wanted to stop the car and take off running, to get away from all of this and find a place to hide. It was no use. My cat, Ella, needed her breakfast. There was work to go to on Monday morning. We needed milk and cereal. I wished for a moment that the world could stop and give me pause. At least until I'd made sense of all of this, until I'd found the right things to say to Raoul.

The car pulled onto the main street near my apartment and I stared out the window as we passed familiar shops and restaurants. When the driver pulled in front of my building, I handed him a twenty, collected the tissues I'd used, and left the cab, not bothering to wait for change.

Raoul hadn't come home yet. His flight would land later in the morning, so I had a few hours to get myself together. Ella greeted me at the door with a chorus of enthusiastic meows. I'd left a bowl full of kibble for her before going out last night, but in fat-cat fashion, she'd likely finished it within an hour. It had been less than twelve hours since I'd fed her last, yet it felt as if days had gone by. Ella's stomach probably agreed with me.

Once she was fed, I moved into the apartment's tiny bathroom. Last night's sweat and guilt felt like slime on my skin and I desperately wanted to feel clean again. I turned on the shower and waited, palms against the sink, for the water to heat up. One of Raoul's razors rested blade up on the counter, prickly hairs still embedded between the blades.

He wasn't here and yet Raoul was everywhere in the apartment. His green toothbrush leaned against mine in the cup on the sink and his two-in-one shampoo stood alone on his shower caddy shelf. I had a sudden urge to throw all of it - the shampoo, the toothbrush, the razor - into the rubbish bin next to the toilet. His toiletries couldn't mock me from the trash can, could they? Only, it wasn't Raoul I was angry with.

I stood in the shower for twenty minutes, scrubbing, shampooing, and exfoliating. Every new plane of skin that I rubbed reminded me of Erik's touches and the soft pressure of his fingers on my neck, my stomach, between my thighs. My cheeks flushed with desire and shame.

I turned off the water, wrapped myself in a towel and fell to the floor in a sobbing, dripping pile of Christine.

And that's how Raoul found me.

I heard the turn of the key in the lock of the front door, then the thunk of a suitcase on hardwood. He was humming something, a popular tune from the radio. He said hello to Ella, who'd run to the door to greet him, and announced that he'd gotten an earlier flight home. When I didn't answer, he walked down the hall, still in his heavy winter boots.

He must have heard me. And then the bathroom door was open and his arms were around me. His wool coat was rough against my bare arms and his blue eyes were wide and worried.

"Christine, sweetheart, what's wrong? Did something happen?"

I nodded, not knowing the words to say. He held me, letting my hair drip onto his coat sleeves and my tears soak into his hair. After several minutes, his patience wore out and he asked, again, "what's wrong?"

I spat the words out like thick vomit, gasping and holding back sobs between the essential parts: Erik, the opera, a night in his condo, home now, so sorry.

"Oh Christine," he said, loosening his grip and pulling back to get a better look at me in my miserable state.

When he looked at me like that, eyes misted and forehead creased, I was desperately aware of my nudity. I pulled my towel tighter across my torso, wishing I could be less exposed. It hadn't occurred to me to lie to him and now I was wishing that I had.

"Do you know why you did this Christine?" he asked, the academic in him wanting to cut to the rational core of the situation.

"Why?" I repeated. I had barely gotten hold of _the how_ and _the who_ and _the what_ of the past 24 hours. _Why_ was a distant mystery that I didn't have the clues yet to solve. "I don't know. It happened and I'm sorry."

"There's always a why, Christine," he said, sighing. "Is it the wedding? Or is it me?"

His prompts felt like accusations and I pulled the towel even tighter, as if I could hide in the terrycloth. I wanted him to scream at me, to call me a whore. But that wasn't Raoul's way.

He sighed again, and I felt his breath against my bare shoulder.

"You need to think about this, Christine. I, I'm going to go out for a few hours. I need to think too."

"But Raoul," I asked, "what will we do?"

"I don't know Christine. I really don't know." He sounded lost, brokenhearted. I'd done that. A fresh knife of pain sliced my insides. Horrible. I was horrible.

Raoul got up from the floor, pulling me with him into a standing position.

"You should get dressed," he suggested. "It's cold in here."

"Yes, I should. I need clothes," I agreed.

"I'll be back in a few hours," he repeated, squeezing my hand before stepping back out into the hall. I heard his steps, slower than before, against the wood of the hallway and then the open and shut of the front door. After I heard the lock click, I left the steam of the bathroom behind and trudged down the hall to the bedroom. Once attired in a pair of sweatpants and loose camisole, I dug my phone out of purse to check the time.

There were seven text messages. The first was from Erik, offering to drive me home to my apartment if that's what I wanted. The second, also from Erik, was a plea for me to return and listen to what he had to say. The third, from Raoul, said that he was on his way home from the airport. The fourth, fifth, sixth, and seventh were all from Erik and included pleas for me to call him, for me to give this a chance, for me to say something, anything.

That final request was one I felt I could respond to. With shaking thumbs, I typed a reply: "You've ruined everything. Please don't contact me ever again."

I opened the phone's email program and sent a short message to Karen, saying that I was sick and wouldn't be in the office tomorrow. Satisfied that I'd done enough in the way of correspondence with the world outside my apartment, I put my phone back into my purse and settled onto the couch with a blanket to cry myself to sleep.

Guilt kept my eyes open. Exhaustion stiffened my legs and arms.

Tears dripped down my cheeks, gathering in fat drops at the point of my chin. I dipped my head, resting my head on my blanket-wrapped knees. The pilled fleece absorbed the wetness of my tears. Not twenty minutes out of a shower, I felt dirty again.

What had I done? I'd gone and traded the security and comfort of a good relationship with good man for a one-night tangle with a dangerous man who was destined to forget about me. What did that make me? A whore at worst and an idiot at best. So much for good Christine, nice girl who works hard and cares for those she loves. The story I'd made of my life was a lie. And I was no longer the heroine.

I sat in silence for nearly an hour, steeping in darkness and dramatic angst.

Ella joined me, burrowing between the folds of the blanket. At the other end of the room, my phone buzzed several times.

Raoul could be coming home soon. And he would want answers, Tiredly, I sifted away the guilt and the shame, forcing myself to recall the moments leading up to the worst decision of my life.


End file.
